Failure
by Firerosemon
Summary: Try as he might, Mary's death is something Dimitry will never be able to move on from.


It soon became apparent that all of the remedies they tried on Mary were useless as her condition continued to deteriorate. It didn't help that more than half of the village was dead, the wise woman and the single physician included.

The few people that still lived were hesitant to assist him in taking care of Mary as it was extremely probable the disease was spread somehow through the air. Despite it being contagious, Dimitry hardly left Mary's bedside. He ignored any thoughts of himself getting the disease, his pigheadedness not allowing him to leave Mary to suffer alone.

She outwardly resented him for his choice, knowing that he too would get sick if he stayed near her but Dimitry knew her well enough to see that underneath all that, she was grateful she wasn't alone. He didn't dare entertain any thoughts of her death, the idea alone something of a taboo to him. He cut her off anytime she tried to speak about it, on days where she had the strength to do so, and she would stare at him with something mournful in her eyes for she had already accepted her demise.

Dimitry on the other hand, wouldn't stop until he found some way to cure the disease that plagued her.

He ransacked the wise woman's home, his desperation overpowering any guilt he may have felt for disturbing the belongings of the dead, searching for anything that would give him some hope.

His search proved worthwhile when he found a stack of old journals, bound together tightly with coarse rope and shoved to the bottom of a trunk. They were what he thought them to be; medical journals.

He wasted no time in opening them and scouring every single page for something that could apply to Mary. He used a few herbal cures for some of symptoms but they didn't do anything at all, in fact, they seemed to make her _worse_.

Dimitry was balancing on the edge of complete despair, there seemed to be nothing he could do to help Mary. Her death was more probable than ever to him.

He thought there was no more hope until he read the last journal in the pile.

This journal was less worn than the rest, none of the pages were dog-eared and it almost looked as if the wise woman had hardly used it at all. Unlike the other few journals, it wasn't full of information and only the first couple of pages were written in.

Dimitry skimmed the words half-heartedly, having used up most of his energy already. He wanted to hope but things hadn't been going his way for a while.

He paused when a particular word caught his attention. It had been underlined many times, so no doubt it was important.

_Vampire_.

…Vampire? The term seemed familiar somehow.

He suddenly recalled the horror stories told to him by his mother, a story of monsters called vampires, beings who preyed upon humans in the night and drank their blood.

But that was a mere fable, surely?

Feeling extremely confused, Dimitry immediately pursued the journal properly, his interest renewed. The entries described vampires in only some detail but the information that was there was enough to catch his attention.

_impervious to disease_… _they are dead yet they live on with their mind intact_… _must be witchcraft_…

His attention was caught by Mary, whose bedside he stayed vigil at, suddenly breaking into a violent coughing fit. He leapt to his feet, dropping the book onto the wooden floor in his haste.

"Mary?" He called lowly but with clear panic in his voice, for this fit seemed to be worse than any of the ones preceding it. His hands were raised in the air as if to help but he didn't even pretend for a second that he knew what he was doing. He hadn't been educated on illness, nor had he cared to look it up before this disease had spread across the village like a swarm of locusts. That was one of the many things he regretted and though he knew that it wasn't his fault he couldn't help but blame himself.

"I'm fine." Mary murmured in a hoarse whisper, her coughing fit coming to an end. She seemed delirious and her forehead was hot to the touch. She brought her hands away from where they had been covering her mouth and with that action, a flash of red caught Dimitry's attention.

Hardly aware of what his body was doing, he reached forward swiftly and grasped one of her wrists, tilting her hand towards him so he could see. The sight of blood coating the inside of her palms froze him entirely for a whole minute. He felt as if all his insides had turned into ice.

Blood was supposed to stay inside of the body. Dimitry felt helpless.

"Mary…" He whispered, feeling tears prickle at the corner of his eyes as he broke the silence of the room. She too seemed transfixed by the sight of her own blood staining her skin. For the first time in a long while he looked at her properly, from a purely objective point on view.

Her complexion was pallid and she was unhealthily thin, as she usually felt too nauseous to even attempt to eat. You could say that she looked as if she were on the verge of death. Even her usually bright eyes seemed dim and unfocused as if the process of leaving the earth had already begun.

Almost as if on autopilot, Dimitry wiped Mary's hands clean, picked the journal up off of the floor and left the room so she could sleep in peace.

(He also left because he feared that if he spent another minute in that room he would no longer be able to hold his tears at bay.)

He opened the book once more, carefully as if it would break with the slightest touch, and read on from where he was before he had been interrupted.

Ten minutes passed before he had learnt all he needed to know. The wise woman had survived encounters with these creatures a few times and so had been able to write detailed accounts of these times.

If there was even the slightest chance then he had to do it.

* * *

Dimitry managed to persuade one of the few people who had not yet caught the disease to come with him in his journey. He promised the man a way to get away from the village and a possible cure to the disease (as the man was showing the beginning symptoms of it.)

Why would he risk traveling with someone who had the disease you might ask? Well it was simple, he already had the disease himself. He had probably caught it from Mary so there was no surprise when he realised he had it. In the early stages the symptoms weren't so bad, definitely not compared to how Mary was, bedridden and practically lifeless.

The man was reluctant to leave his dying family but Dimitry managed to convince him, saying it would be worse to watch it happen. It was manipulative thing to do Dimitry would admit but he couldn't allow himself to feel guilt at the present time. In the end, they managed to get ready to leave very quickly though it wasn't as if there was anything stopping them.

Dimitry found saying goodbye to Mary before he left was the hardest part. She was asleep, chalk white and lying so still that Dimitry found himself moving to check her pulse before he saw the slight but still noticeable movement of her chest. She was breathing, thank god.

He didn't dare wake her, which was one thing he would later regret doing, and instead stood by her bedside, trying to engrave the sight of her into his mind. Though this weak image of her wasn't a particularly fond memory it was still her and he never wanted to forget her.

Trying to ignore the pessimistic thoughts of this being the last time he'll see her alive, he leaned down and brushed his lips over her forehead in a lingering kiss, wishing she would wake up so he could see those familiar pink eyes just one more time before he left.

She didn't wake up.

Dimitry left a few moments later, unaware that would be the last time he saw her alive.

* * *

Dimitry's traveling companion died not too far into the journey, succumbing to the disease. He was baffled as to why he died so soon but took it as a bad omen.

* * *

The stench of decomposing flesh was overpowering even from outside the castle. Dimitry desperately hoped that it was from all the unburied bodies of the dead villagers and not from Mary but one part of his mind _knew_ despite the rest of him rejecting the very idea.

He made his way up to the room he had left her in, feeling his heart become heavier with every step. He could hear no heartbeat, which his newly enhanced senses would have allowed him to hear from miles away.

He stepped over the body of the woman who had been taking care of Mary in his absence, sparing her a brief pain-filled glance as he silently promised to bury her later.

He stopped in front of the door to Mary's room, his hand hovering over the handle as he hesitated, wanting to delay the inevitable.

Realising it would do no good to just stand there, trying to prepare himself as it was a sight he would never be ready for, he opened the door.

His eyes locked onto her corpse immediately, the same spot he had left her in what seemed like months ago but was only a week at the most.

For an instant it seemed like the earth stopped rotating on its axis, as if time itself slowed to a halt.

He stood there in shock for a moment. Knowing she was dead and seeing the body were two very different things.

Dimitry stiffly walked over, feeling all strength leave him as he gazed down at her lifeless face. Collapsing to his knees beside her, he was glad he didn't have to breathe anymore.

"Mary…" He choked out her name, staring at her glazed eyes, sunken back into her skull. He was surprised he could even let out any noise at all, his throat felt tight as if he were suffocating.

The body was a ghastly sight, distressing him much more than the few he had seen on his way through the village.

He stared down at her hand, lying on top of the sheets and recalled the sight of it covered in blood. He would have preferred to be living that moment than this one.

Why was it their village that was cursed to have this disease?

Dimitry wished he could deny Mary's death but the evidence was staring him right in the face. He wished he could say this wasn't happening and it was all a horrible nightmare but he could feel the changes within himself. His heart wasn't beating, his senses were sharper and the taste of blood still lingered on his tongue.

He swallowed heavily, the realisation that Mary could have died alone and in a great deal of agony hitting him hard.

He had just left her here, for a cure that was more hope than anything else and it seemed he was paying the price.

"Please wake up." He couldn't help plea, resting his forehead on the bed he was kneeling in front of - her death bed. His hand reached towards her immobile one, touching it and flinching away when faced with the cold temperature.

Everyone was dead. His parents, Mary's parents, the villagers and Mary herself. Was he all alone? Cursed to live an eternity without the love of his life?

"I miss you." He confessed into the silence of the room, hearing his voice break as if he were listening to someone else pouring their heart out, not him.

He felt as if his insides had been hollowed out, leaving nothing but emptiness inside him.

Silence surrounded him, suffocating in its weight. It was as if Death was sitting on his shoulders, having been unable to reach him so they went for the next best thing: Mary.

He wasn't sure how long he stayed, kneeling besides her corpse, wishing he could cry but not sure he had that ability anymore, but it was long enough for him to realise he would never be whole again.

* * *

It was that day again.

The anniversary of her death.

He stared down silently, respectfully, at her carefully maintained grave before kneeling down in front of it. A gust of wind blew past, ruffling his long hair. He barely felt it.

He reached out, tracing the letters engraved by himself onto the gravestone. Most of the time he would talk to her, recount fond memories and such. This time, he didn't feel the need to say anything. His silence said everything, or so he felt.

Not for the first time Dimitry wished he had let his tears flow in the past, when it was still possible for him to do so. Maybe if he had the grief he was feeling wouldn't be as strong.

The sound of the forest was hushed, as if nature had come to a halt to mourn collectively. All Dimitry could recall was the feel of her hand in his, the sight of her smile, and the sound of her laugh.

If he still had his heart he was sure it would be aching terribly right now.


End file.
